


to make the sun stand still

by deadlybride



Series: there and back again [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Benny Lafitte Lives, Cabin Fic, Established Relationship, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Multi, Season/Series 11, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 22:27:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9789896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Benny came back with Sam from Purgatory, after the trials, and set up a quiet life in a cabin up in the Kentucky hills. Sam and Dean visit, sometimes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in a vague S11 space, after "Baby" but before "O Brother Where Art Thou?" Title paraphrased from _To His Coy Mistress_ by Andrew Marvell.

Hazard's one of those little speedbump kind of towns—a tiny collection of cobbled-together houses strung along the state highway, a few stores and too many churches—hidden in among the Kentucky hills. Just big enough to pick up some supplies, the streets uncrowded and sleepy even in the middle of the afternoon. Even so, Sam's just as glad to leave it when Dean aims the Impala south, cruising slow along the narrow roads between the trees, heading into the hill country. It's a chilly autumn day but Sam's got his window down so he can breathe in that oxygen-rich air. Dean hasn't complained about the cold yet—miracle of miracles. The leaves are shading down into oranges and reds but haven't yet fallen, and somewhere someone's burning a woodfire with the smoke-smell lingering on the breeze, and Dean's playing Johnny Cash quiet on the tapedeck, and Sam can actually feel himself relaxing, watching the trees pass by.

He wakes up some untold time later with Dean shaking his shoulder. "Rise and shine, Sammy," Dean says, but not deliberately annoying like that particular phrase usually is. Sam sits up, scrubs at his face. It's—dim, the sun gone down, but down here in the hills that happens early. Dean's already out of the car, stretching, so Sam follows, his boots sinking into the rich loamy earth. Dean's pulled twenty feet off the pavement, right up where the ground starts to slope up into the hills. They can't get up to the cabin by the road, and Dean refuses to take the Impala up into the woods, so they'll hike from here.

"Ready?" Dean says, and Sam stops just staring out over the fire-colored trees below, shakes his head. When he looks over Dean's raising his eyebrows, smiling a little, his coat collar pulled up against the chill and his bags already slung over his back. "You keep sightseeing and we won't make it up there before midnight."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah," he says, but he shoulders his share of the bags, tries to settle their weight evenly for the hike ahead. Dean slams the trunk and locks up the car, and then takes the lead, up between the trees, heading at a gentle angle up the slope. Almost a half-dozen trips up here and they've figured out the fastest route that won't absolutely kill them before they get there. Sam settles into it, glad that they ate a big lunch before they left Hazard, and glad too for his jacket, since it's cooler here under the trees where the sun almost never reaches. They crunch along quietly through the undergrowth, the bare light filtering in through the canopy overhead getting darker. They hit the creek about an hour later, coming through the trees into the open air and startling a buck so that it darts off into the shadows. Dean, the dork, calls a _sorry, deer,_ after it and Sam snorts. He follows as Dean picks his way across the slippery stones rising up out of the bubbly dark water and then up the next slope again, thighs starting to ache a little from the climb. He wouldn't be surprised if they end up eating that deer, over the next few days. Dean never quite can stomach that part of the trip. Threatens to give all the animals they see names, like it's somehow worse to eat the ones you can see rather than the ones slaughtered a hundred miles away.

It really is full dark and they're picking their along by their flashlights by the time they come to the clearing, nearly to the top of this last hill. The trees open up suddenly and Dean stops, takes in a long deep breath. The clearing's maybe thirty yards square, nothing huge, just an empty spot where the trees don't grow—and, at the back of it, the cabin, sturdy wood and stone and square windows lit up with lamplight, woodsmoke rising lazily from the chimney. The night air's full of the smell of hickory, of roasting meat. They stand there for a moment, just catching their breath, and it's not a minute before the door swings open, and Benny's giving them that one-sided smile, wiping his hands with a rag. "Now, here's a sad sight," he says, shaking his head. "Two world-famous hunters, brought low by a little hike through the woods."

"Screw you," Dean calls out, mock-frowning. "I can still kick your ass all the way down to Hazard."

Sam shakes his head and crosses the clearing, says, "Let's not, okay, I don't want to have to drag you both all the way back up here," but he finds himself smiling, and Benny meets him at the top of the porch steps, catches Sam's wrist in one of those viking-style handshakes.

"You are the smart one, Sam," he says, and his skin might be too-cold but he's grinning, relaxed, and Sam's just happy to see him. He lets go as Dean comes up the steps behind him, saying, "Standing right here, you dicks," and then Dean drops his bags on the porch and wraps Benny up in a bear hug, tight enough that Benny lets out an _oof_ as the air's crushed out of him. Sam bites his bottom lip, watches as Benny dips his face down into the crook of Dean's shoulder, smile going wide, his hand settling low on Dean's back—but then he pushes back, claps a hand onto Dean's shoulder and looks between them, grinning easy. "Well, my weary travelers. Can I interest you in some grub?"

 

Benny built the cabin himself, after he came back with Sam from Purgatory. Dean wondered to Sam, privately, why he wouldn't go back to the sea, sail the familiar waters, but Sam always knew why. Easier, sometimes, not to go back. Force yourself onto new ground, force yourself to become something new.

Up here in the hills they're miles and miles away from any people, and it's quiet. After dinner—venison stew with wild mushrooms which Dean practically inhaled, just as Sam knew he would—Sam goes out to the porch to sit on the homemade bench up against the cabin wall, take in the night for a while. He stretches out his legs, folds his arms over his chest. Chilly out, but he could easily fall asleep, right here. The trees are dark surrounding shadows against a blacker night and the stars are out in full force, no light pollution or smog to hide them. It's almost like the sky outside the bunker, though the constellations are shifted over a little. He keeps his eyes on the sky, listening with half an ear to the murmur of Dean and Benny talking, on the other side of the window inside, low enough that he can't make out the words. It's sort of comforting, in its way, now that he knows there's nothing to hide.

It's a little while before the door swings open. He turns his head against the log wall to find Benny, holding out a mug, which he takes to find a few fingers of scotch inside. "Want to make sure you get some before your brother in there drains the bottle," Benny says, and Sam snorts, cradles the mug against his chest. It smells good, sweet and peaty. Benny settles down on the bench beside him, with a sigh. "Pretty sure it was you who picked it out, anyway."

Sam nods, acknowledging that—but he doesn't much want to talk. He's feeling too mellow to break the peace out here. Benny leans back against the wall, takes a sip from his own mug. There's an owl off in the distance, hooting lowly, and when it's silent like this Sam can hear the rush of the creek down in the dark valley between the hills. Whatever last bit of tension was still in his shoulders slips away.

"How long you think y'all will stay," Benny says, after a while. His voice is low, quiet.

"Few days," Sam says, in the same tone. He stirs enough to finally take a swallow of the scotch—and, yeah, it's good, a smooth easy burn going down. "Just finished up a hunt outside Fort Wayne. Nothing else lined up, yet."

Benny nods, doesn't ask for more details. That's how it always is, up here, and it's why Sam keeps coming, no matter how twisted-up nervous he was the first few times. Benny's a solid, calm presence. It's not like staying at Bobby's used to be, when they were younger—all those layers of history and responsibility, not wanting to disappoint, reduced somehow always to kids slotted back into the roles they were expected to play. Jody's house is a little easier, since she never knew them when they were any shorter than six feet, but there's still that long bloody history, the mothering way she'll look at them sometimes, the way she expects them to have the answers, to save the day. Benny's just... there. Doesn't ask for anything they're not ready to give, doesn't expect. If Sam decided right now that he was never coming back here, Benny wouldn't say a word—and it's that, that utter lack of obligation, that open door. Makes it easy to walk back through it.

"All right, I washed the dishes, chef," Dean says, breaking their quiet, and Sam and Benny both turn their heads to see him standing there in the open doorway, jacket off and his sleeves rolled up. His hands are planted on his hips, his eyebrows high. "Is that enough of a repayment for a human dinner?"

Benny puts his mug down on the bench between him and Sam very deliberately, stands up slow. "Well, I don't know, now," he says, in that lazy drawl. Sam turns a little more, puts his shoulder to the cabin wall so he can see. His stomach's warm, with the dinner and the booze, but it burns a little lower, for this. Benny crowds in close, sets his hands on Dean's hips and pushes him up against the doorjamb, steady and strong. "Might be that you owe me a little more than that, chief."

Dean rolls his eyes, but the lamplight inside's bright enough to see that he's flushing all the way up his neck. "What is this, a bodice-ripper?" he says, but it's a little rougher. Benny's maybe half an inch shorter than Dean, but he's broader, and even if he's strictly on animal blood now he's plenty strong enough to keep Dean exactly where he wants him. Benny's just holding him in place, a slight smile curving the side of his face that Sam can see, and Dean darts a look over at where Sam's sitting, watching, but Sam just takes another sip off his scotch, lets it roll warm and slow down his throat. Dean groans, faux-annoyed, and sets his hands on Benny's forearms, circling loose around them. "Get the lead out, man," he says, voice gone low, and Benny leans in and kisses him, direct and firm, and Sam watches Dean's eyes shudder closed as he opens his mouth for it.

This is the other part that makes it easy to come back. Sam watches them kiss, Benny keeping the pace lazy and slow, his hands moving up under Dean's flannel shirt, holding onto his waist while Dean grasps at his arm, at the back of his neck, and that strange feeling snakes through Sam's belly, sets his blood to beating faster. Not the first time, not by far, and yet there's always that instant of _no,_ seeing Dean wrapped up in someone else—and then Dean groans, breaks the kiss enough that Benny's mouth slips down to his jaw, kisses over to that spot under his ear that Sam knows so well, and Dean slits his eyes open and looks right at Sam, and the faint wrongness slips away, just that like that. Sam smiles, takes a sip with his eyes on Dean over the top of the mug, so that Dean groans out, "You dick." Benny laughs up against Dean's skin. He slants a glance back at Sam, too, and then nips at Dean's lip.

"You think your brother's feeling a little left out, over there?" he murmurs, loud enough that Sam can hear, and Dean shakes his head, wraps an arm around Benny's shoulders.

"I think he can wait his turn," he says, and arches as Benny drops a hand down to his ass, squeezes. Sam licks his lips, knows that Dean's watching his face, but he's more focused on the view below—Dean spreading his legs, a little, Benny's thigh slipping in between them. When Dean talks again his voice is lower, rougher, as he says, "See, it was a long drive down, and I was bored, you know how it is," and Benny hums, pushes his thigh a little higher and makes Dean's hips flinch, makes him grind down into the pressure, but he keeps going, he says, "so we pulled over, at that rest stop outside Louisville, and I pulled Sammy into the bathroom and held him up against the wall and I blew him, and he's so big, you know, so my jaw's still kinda sore—" and Sam darts his eyes back up, low pulse in his balls just from the memory, to find Dean staring at him again, heavy-eyed and wet-mouthed and knowing just what he's doing.

Benny groans, losing his cool just for a second. "Well, that sounds like somethin' I'm sorry I missed," he says, and then there's the sound of a zip and Dean slams his head back against the door jamb, gasping at whatever's happening between them where Sam can't see.

"Plenty of time for that if you want a replay," Sam says, and his voice comes out so much smoother than he feels, but it makes Benny toss another little grin his way—and then he picks Dean up, by the thighs, makes him yelp, like Sam will do sometimes when he's feeling especially caveman—but it's no effort for Benny, of course, no effort at all, and the two of them disappear into the cabin, so that Sam has to stand up on briefly unsteady legs and follow, if he wants to watch.

The cabin's nothing special. Makeshift kitchen on one wall, bookshelves on another, the table in the center, and on the back wall a big sprawling bed, on a low wooden frame not far from the fireplace. The space is all lit up with firelight and the light from the oil lamps on the walls so that Sam, leaning in the doorway, can watch as Benny carries Dean across the room, mouth busy at the base of his neck, Dean's thighs clinging around his hips and Dean's fingernails scraping through his short hair—so he can watch as Benny lays him down on the mattress, as he pulls back and yanks Dean's boots off, and his jeans, Dean wriggling out of his flannel and t-shirt so he's bare and smooth in the firelight. "Hurry up," Sam hears Dean say, low like he didn't intend for Sam to hear, and Sam drops a hand down to his crotch, squeezing where his dick's filling up his boxers, because he can see Dean, dick already hard and heavy against his thigh, pushed up on his elbows to watch while Benny yanks off his suspenders, hauls his shirt over his head.

"You bring—" Benny says, rough, opening up the front of his trousers, and Dean gives him that stupid leer, that one that ought to be nothing but ridiculous, and says, "Already got myself lubed up, while you two were out there communing with the night," and Sam and Benny both groan out loud, but it's Benny who leans forward, who spreads open Dean's legs and yanks him down the mattress so he lands flat on his back, and apparently he trusts Dean, because it's not another two seconds before he's pushing in, forcing Dean's back into an arch as he meets it, his knees drawn up high around Benny's solid waist. Sam goes over to the table and drags out one of the chairs, sits down before he falls down, and watches Dean's head fall back, eyes closed, watches him moan out shakily as Benny thrusts into him with his head tucked down against Dean's throat. It's rough, and fast at first, and Dean clutches at Benny's shoulders to urge him on—but Benny slows, instead, pushes up on his arms and slows his hips into that steady unhurried rhythm that Sam knows all too well, that makes Dean moan long and low and makes him twist against the sheets. He turns his head, and Sam can see that his eyes are shut tight, his teeth dug into his generous lower lip. Benny leans in, says, "Hold on, sweetheart," quiet against Dean's temple. “We've got all the time in the world." Dean moans, slits his eyes open and looks straight at Sam—and then Benny’s moving again and Dean’s mouth drops open, his body arching up under Benny’s on the mattress. Beautiful.

Sam blows out a long breath, ignores the pulsing from his dick. He leans back in his chair, swallows down the last of his scotch, and settles in for a long, pleasant evening.

 

That first time, what feels like forever ago—

Sam wakes up slowly, on his back. Cool morning light filters in through the windows. Benny's gone, but Dean's still sleeping, curled around one of the pillows, his thigh snugged up tight against Sam's. Sam sits up, propping himself on his hands with a yawn, and then looks down as Dean makes a little muffled noise. He's got a little sleepy frown on his face, his hair ruffled as much as it can be, and Sam smiles down at him, can't help himself. He tugs the kicked-away quilt over Dean's naked body, up to his pale, freckled shoulders, and then pushes up to his feet with a muffled groan to tug on his jeans and the t-shirt he left slung over one of the chairs. When he slips out on the porch on bare feet, the sun hasn't yet crested the mountain to the east. His watch tells him it’s just after eight o’clock, but the clearing's full of that directionless clear dawn-light. It's cold, and goosebumps immediately rill over his bare arms, but he ignores them. A few birds are calling, somewhere in the trees, and he just wants to soak in the quiet, just for a moment.

Still—this is the deep country, and even on a vacation there are chores that need doing. He stands there and gives himself one more minute to breathe the chill damp air, and then he collects his boots and his coat and goes around the back of the cabin to check the rainwater reservoir: a little low. He grabs the buckets stacked neatly beside it and heads down to the creek, taking his time as he moves into the shadows under the trees.

It had taken them a long time to get better, that year. They each had their own indiscretions behind them, though only Sam's had been out in the open, poisoning the air. It took almost six months, took until Sam had resolved never again to contact Amelia, until Dean had done the same with Benny, before Sam learned just how similar their year apart had been. Dean had told him, flat-out, in that other cabin with his eyes fixed on the ancient crackling TV. It wasn't like he was trying to replace Sam, he'd said. It was just—that other world was such a long, lonely, endless slog. It was just that even a cold touch was better than nothing. Dean didn't apologize for it, though, and Sam had almost been sick with a surge of stupid, jealous fury, even knowing that it was hypocrisy. Finally understanding that Dean's fury over Amelia had been hypocrisy, just the same. Still. Sam's never been entirely sane, over his brother—not like it doesn't go both ways—and it wasn't long before they came together, again, all their jagged edges settling tight against each other, a comfort even if it hurt, sometimes, a bruise that never quite felt healed. It was a hard year (what year isn't, in their lives)—but even so, Sam would never have imagined the bruise being lanced in quite this way.

He washes his face in the creek's cold, cold water, gasping at the chill of it as he runs his wet hands through his hair. The buckets are five gallons each, store-bought but with good, sturdy handles. Once he's filled them and starts back up the slope his shoulders strain under the weight, but it's not a bad workout. Still—it's Dean's turn, next time.

Benny's still not back by the time Sam makes it up the hill with the water. He brings the buckets inside to find Dean still sleeping, sprawled out into the warm space Sam left. Sam thinks about waking him, but—no. Been a while since they really could do just nothing with their days. Anyway, Dean got worked hard last night. He hefts the one bucket and fills the big pot on the wood-fired stove, starts it to boiling with a few extra logs added to the fire below. He kicks his boots back off, goes back out to the porch with a paperback pulled at random off one of Benny's shelves. It's a beautiful morning.

He's lost in the book— _The Old Man and the Sea_ , he hasn't read this since he was eleven—when the door swings open again, and Dean says, "Crap, it's cold out here."

Sam snorts, sticks his thumb into his place. Dean's wrapped up in the quilt from the bed, bare legs pale in the thin morning light. "You could try putting some clothes on," Sam says.

"And deprive you of this incredible view?" Dean says, waggling his eyebrows, but he shivers hard before he even finishes and it sort of ruins the effect. Sam gives him a look, but before he can say anything Dean shivers harder, gets out a stern, "Shut up," and then, mood turning on a dime, all hopeful: "That water supposed to be for a bath?"

Sam shakes his head, but he stands up, leaves the book there on the bench. "Yeah, come on," he says, and lets Dean get away with shifting from foot to foot, shivering, while Sam drags out the big copper hip-bath Benny's got stashed in one corner. The hot won't be nearly enough to fill it, but it's enough to stop Dean from bitching about _freezing_ , the wuss. Sam dumps the boiling water into the bath, steam ballooning up around him, and then dumps the other bucket of creek-water in so Dean won't scald himself. It's not even close to halfway full, but it'll do, and Dean seems to agree—he drops the blanket in a puddle on the floorboards so that Sam gets an eyeful of all that pale skin, and sinks down into it with a long groan, knees spread out wide to brace himself. "Okay, I take it all back," Dean says, on a long sigh, while Sam just drinks in the view. "We’ll keep you around after all.”

"Good to know," Sam says, dry. Dean smiles, eyes closed, and stretches his legs out a little more.

Sam drops one of the rags from the linen chest onto Dean's knee, then drags up the chair he used last night, straddles it and folds his arms on the high hand-carved back, making no pretense that he's not just going to watch. Dean squints at him, and Sam shrugs, which makes Dean rolls his eyes, but he doesn't protest. He doesn't make a show of it, either, just takes the soft rag and dips it into the water.

"Benny out hunting?" he says, scrubbing down over his chest and stomach.

Sam rests his chin on his forearm, shrugs again. "Probably. We didn't give him a lot of warning before showing up."

Dean makes a little noise of agreement, swabbing down between his legs, under the water, and it's not sexy, not really, but Sam finds himself chewing the inside of his lip, just thinking about the implication. How messy Dean got, and how he passed out before they could clean up, gleaming with sweat and practically glowing in the firelight. Dean shifts around, hauls himself upright and gets onto his knees in the bath with a surge of displaced water, and he's looking down at himself, scrubbing the rag along his thighs and then back, to his ass, moving a little slower, a little more careful where he’s tender. Sam watches the water running down his chest, over his soft belly and his soft dick, over where he's got that tiny smattering of freckles on the outside of one strong thigh, over the bruise-dark bite mark just above his hip that's perfectly visible in the clear light. Sam takes in a slow breath through his nose, blows out steady through his mouth. Maybe he'll take care of water duty, the next couple days, after all. He suspects that Dean'll need it.

Dean's dressed in jeans and a soft green henley and they've dumped the bathwater (after Sam took the opportunity to do a quick swab himself, what Dean insists on calling a whore's bath when he's not telling Sam to _take a washcloth to the Danger Zone!_ ). Sam's sitting outside again, about fifty pages from finishing _The Old Man and the Sea_ while Dean works on making them both coffee with the supplies they brought, when Benny comes into the clearing, through the higher trees on the north side.

"Morning," Sam calls, and Benny waves an acknowledgment, but his hands are streaked with blood, his beard stained red, and he disappears toward the back of the cabin without saying anything. It's an odd little jolt, but Sam opens his book back up and ignores it. They never forget that Benny's a vampire, not really. They don't talk about it, but there's a machete buried at the very bottom of Dean's pack, a vial of dead man's blood in Sam's. Benny made damn sure they brought both, first time they came to see him after Purgatory, though he was just in a camper truck, then. A fresh start, he'd said—no human blood, not even donated—but he wanted them to be careful, even so. Dean had told him about Lenore's crew, that they'd known it was possible. Now, Sam listens to the splashing as Benny cleans away the evidence of his feeding, and wonders how he'd ever explain this to another hunter. This certainty that the only blood that passed through Benny's lips these days was from things that fled on four legs, not two.

That first time. After Purgatory, Sam had programmed his own number into Benny's phone, had handed it back to him in full view of Dean, said _call anytime_. He owed Benny more than he could say, and he'd carried his soul in his own body, poured him free of Purgatory and brought him to life same as Dean had. Hadn't been too much longer before they got the call, Benny needing help—not blood, not a rescue from another hunter. Just—contact. Someone to talk to. They'd piled into the car and driven out into the deep hills of Kentucky, Sam trying to hide how he kept trembling and trying not to puke in the passenger seat, Dean trying to pretend like he didn't notice, and met him at the lone motel on the outskirts of Hazard. Sam had watched Dean and Benny hug, like the best of friends—but Dean immediately stepped back and put his shoulder right next to Sam's, helping to hold him upright so he could shake Benny's hand without keeling over. Benny's eyes had gone sharp, looking Sam over, and Sam remembers so clearly the concerned look that he shot to Dean—concern for him, for them both. The old useless jealousy slithered away, then. They got a motel, and while Benny was in the shower washing off the dirt of living on the road Sam pulled Dean close and kissed him, hard, hoping Dean couldn't taste the old blood at the back of his tongue—wondering if Benny could smell it—and when he'd released Dean, gasping, he'd said _if you want—if you still—_ and Dean had blinked up at him in shock and denied it, but Sam knew his brother, knew when he was denying himself something to spare Sam feelings. He'd said _it won't change anything, will it?_ and Dean had said _no, Sammy, but—_ and Sam had shrugged, even if he was still uneasy, said, _Zeppelin's all you need, but sometimes you want a little Styx too, right?_ and Dean had stood there with his mouth open, his throat and cheeks flushing dark, and finally he'd said _I'm telling Benny you just compared him to Styx_ , but his hand was tight in Sam's, and that's how Sam knew it was okay.

 

Most of the day's devoted to building the woodshed Benny's decided to put up. He's already got most of the planks sawed and was going to put it together himself, but Dean's got the eye for construction, draws up a quick set of plans like he's an engineer. "It's just a shed, chief," Benny says, dryly, but Dean rolls right over that with, "I saw that lean-to you built back in Purgatory, Frank Lloyd, so we're gonna do this my way." Sam gets set to carrying and hammering where he’s told, while Benny angles and shortens some of the planks to Dean's exact specifications under the shade of the porch, and by dusk they've got it half-built—already so sturdy that Sam can't budge it, even when he shoves against the wall with all his strength. From his perch on the slanted roof Dean smiles down at Benny, smug, and Benny rolls his eyes, says, "All right, all right," but when he turns away to store the tools Sam can see he's grinning. Sam helps Dean down from the roof by letting him use Sam's shoulders as a handhold, and when Sam cocks a head at the shed, asking why, Dean just shrugs and says, "He might need the thing for another hundred years, might as well build it to last," and goes into the cabin. Sam can hear him informing Benny that his contractor fees include a glass of scotch and dinner. Benny laughs, says something lowly in return, and Sam rests a hand on the still unfinished wood planks, looks up at the cloudy night sky. A hundred years, he thinks. He hopes that's so.

It rains that night, steady and slow, a low wind soughing through the trees. In bed, Sam tucks a hand behind his head, watches the dark ceiling. Dean's laid out against his side, warm and dead to the world, his slow even breathing a comfort by which Sam's tracking the minutes as they slip by. The bed's comfortable enough—a thick wool-stuffed mattress that Benny made himself, a modern pillowtop laid over it—and Sam's not too warm, not too cold. The fire's banked, mostly, just a warm dark orange glow that's enough to see by. He turns his head, watching the slowly shifting colors for a while, and then Benny says, quiet, "Can hear your mind working all the way over here, Sam."

It's offered neutrally, so much so that Sam could just ignore it, but he turns his head again to find Benny propped up on one elbow on Dean's other side, watching him. He doesn't say anything, just shrugs one shoulder, and Benny regards him steadily for another long moment. "Drink?" he says, finally, and—yeah, actually. Sam could go for that.

Sam ends up sitting at the table in tugged-on boxers, watching Benny move around the little kitchen in his trousers, bare to the waist with his suspenders swinging against his hips. Water's boiled, with a handful of tea, some kind of spice from a jar, a dollop of honey. He strains it into a mug through a cheesecloth—why the hell does he have cheesecloth, Sam thinks, amused—and adds a hefty glug of the scotch they brought. He sets it in front of Sam with a little flourish. "Hot toddy, just like Mama Lafitte used to make."

Dean turns over, in the bed, and Sam glances his way but he hasn't woken up. "Scotch part of the family recipe, too?" Sam says, wrapping both hands around the hot mug.

Benny shrugs, taking a seat opposite him at the table. "Nah, but real scotch wasn't something we ever had around," he said. He nods at the mug. "Lucky you. I used to get it with raw moonshine from out of my daddy's still. Puts hair on your chest."

Sam huffs a laugh, leans his elbows onto the solid hickory tabletop. "I forget sometimes," he says. Benny frowns, leaning back in the chair, and Sam studies what he can see of his expression in the shadowy, flickering light, but then clears his throat, looks down. "You've been around a long time."

"Ah." There's a long pause, and when he looks up he finds that Benny's studying him right back. When he meets Benny's eyes he gets a shrug, and that half-smile. "Not nearly so long as other things. Just longer than you. And that's thanks to you, and to your brother."

Sam presses his lips together, nods, but finds himself looking down at the tabletop again. Benny just sits with him, steady, the silence wide open between them. There's a gust of wind, loud, and then the sound of the rain outside slackens a little. Turns to a slower drizzling, rain water splatting down off the eaves onto the porch. Sam takes a swallow of the toddy, the warm spice of it lingering in his throat, and then he says, "I did something really, really terrible." Out spills the story—the Mark, which Benny knew about, and Book of the Damned, which he didn't, and then, that last day, Sam forcing Rowena to go forward even despite the consequences. He doesn't tell how he'd knelt there, on the hard wooden floor, face bleeding and tears in his eyes, or how close Dean had come to—how Dean had nearly—because it didn't matter, now, not anymore, because it didn't happen. He just says, low, talking to his mug and his hands and the table below them, that the Mark had burned right off of Dean's arm, and then—the darkness. Boiling up out of earth and sky. Poisoning both.

The mug's only lukewarm between his palms, when he's done. "We're going to fix it," he says. He doesn't doubt it, really. They will fix it, one way or another, even if Dean refuses to accept how. "It's just—I'm not sorry. I'd do it again."

He looks up, and Benny's leaning back in his chair, arms folded over his bare chest. When Sam meets his eyes, he nods, but doesn't say anything—just slides a look over to the bed, where Dean's still sprawled out asleep, slowly taking over the space they left around him. Sam bites his lip, closes his eyes. A cool hand circles around his wrist, big and calloused and capable, even if it lacks a heartbeat. Finally, Benny says, "You gonna finish that drink?" Sam nods, tilts the mug up and drains it in three quick swallows, the liquor settling down warm in his belly, his mouth sweet with honey and spice. There's the short scrape of wood-on-wood and then Benny's around the table, urging him up to his feet. When he opens his eyes, Benny's right there in front of him, looking up into his face. He's got the advantage, in the dark, and even more so because Sam has no idea what his expression looks like, just then. Benny puts a hand cold over Sam's heart, holds there for a second—and then pushes him, lightly, back toward the bed. "Go on to sleep, brother," he says. "Dean's going to be missing you."

Sam does as he's told, peels his boxers back off and slips under the quilt, presses himself up against Dean's warm, sleep-smelling skin. Dean stirs, turns his head on the pillow, and slits a look at Sam, his eyes gleaming in the barely-there firelight. "Cold, Sammy," he mumbles, vaguely accusing, but he pushes in against Sam anyway, his head tucking in under Sam's chin, and Sam wraps his arm over his back, holds him close. He closes his eyes and listens as Benny moves around the cabin in the dark. Listens as he lays another few split logs down and stokes the fire, re-banks the fire in the stove, humming some low, unrecognizable song. Sam buries his nose in Dean's hair, sighs. The space beneath the blankets grows warmer.

 

It's full morning by the time Sam wakes up—the sun high enough to spill warm light over the ridge, pouring into the cabin's uncovered windows to spill over the floor, though it's still shadowy here in the back where the bed is. He blinks, stretches out from where he's been curled on his side, and then Dean says, "Welcome to the world, Sammy," in a half-laughing voice, and Sam turns his head over his shoulder to see— _oh_ —

The quilt's shoved down to Sam's waist, but they've kicked it completely off on the bed's other side. Gives a great view of Dean laying there sprawled on his side, arm curled under his head—and Benny at his back, leaning up and over a little, his mouth lingering on Dean's shoulder while his hand works below, where Dean's hard, his dick red and shiny-wet, ready.

"Mornin'," Benny says, eyes clear blue in the daylight, crinkled over where he's hiding one of those smug little grins behind Dean's shoulder. He twists his wrist, pulls up Dean's shaft in a slow tight drag, rubs over the slick head with his palm so Dean shivers, and Sam turns over, rolls to the center of the bed where Dean's waiting and covers up his half-smile with his mouth, licking in deep when Dean opens up for him. He drags a hand down Dean's chest, down his belly, and meets Benny's cool hand sliding down again—passes by to cup his balls, holds them up high against his body, presses his fingers up deep behind—and, yeah, Dean groans into his mouth, his bottom leg coming up to brace himself as he arches into the pressure.

Dean sucks his lower lip, hips shifting up against both their hands, but when Sam pulls back he wrinkles his nose a little, miming at distaste. "Morning breath, Sammy," he says, shaking his head. It'd sound more genuine if he weren’t just a bit out of breath. "I know I taught you better than that."

Sam pushes up onto one hand and licks his lips, a familiar flavor at the back of his tongue. "What, to brush my teeth with whiskey?" he says, eyebrows high.

Benny chuckles, moves his hand so it's hooked into the crook of Dean's thigh, broad knuckles tucked in against Dean’s balls. "Said he was on vacation," he says, arching an eyebrow at Sam, and Dean throws an elbow behind him, then twists around with that face like he's going to argue, but Benny just catches a hand over the back of his neck and kisses him, shuts him up the best way they know how.

Sam rubs a hand down over his own dick, swelling a little where it’s already starting to get interested. They're good, together. Dean's strong, no doubt about it—the muscle's heavy in his thighs, his arms, beautiful along the arched line of his back. Benny's thicker, though, stocky and built as solid as he must’ve been when he was really alive, his square capable hand spreading out over Dean's nape to pin him in place. Sam licks his lips, wants to pull the hand away and replace it with his mouth, his teeth—but he wants to do this right. No need to rush.

Stumble out of the cabin into the shocking morning cold, the grass freezing wet on his feet as he steps out of the clearing to take a piss. He leans one shoulder against a tree, sighs with relief as he lets go. Even now his dick's plump, in his hand, the blood rushing where it's wanted despite the chilly air. He steps back out into the clearing, when he's done, stands naked in the sunlight with his eyes closed to soak up a tiny bit of warmth. Not long, because through the door he left hanging open comes a loud groan, slicing through the still air. Sam steps back up onto the porch and through the doorway to find Benny slumped back on the pillows against the wooden headboard, hands petting Dean's shoulders as Dean swallows him down, laying out full length between Benny's spread legs.

"Your brother's got a mouth on him, you know that?" Benny says, eyes closed. He's not flushed—can't be—but he's breathing harder, his one hand locked tight into the muscle of Dean's shoulder. Below, Dean screws his mouth down lower, nose nearly touching the soft thatch of darkish hair, his hands braced against Benny's thick thighs.

"I do, actually," Sam says, and Benny huffs out a laugh, cups one hand against Dean's cheek as he bobs up, the wet dark thickness of shaft sliding slow between his lips. God. Sam turns and shuts the door, braces a hand against it for just a second, listens to the wet noise of Dean's mouth working. His dick's filling, slow but sure, because this is better than any kind of porn.

Benny keeps an old-fashioned ewer on the counter. Sam wets the rag left over the big basin sink and scrubs his face clean of sleep, a wet cool shock over the back of his neck, down his stomach, a flinching cold touch over his dick, his balls— _danger zone,_ Dean's voice says in his head. The scotch really is open, on the counter, and Sam necks the bottle, takes two long swallows straight to the gut. Fuck it, he thinks—they're on vacation.

He walks through the shafts of morning light to the darker bed and goes to his knees on the mattress, shuffles in close enough that he can slip his fingers down Dean's rough-stubbled jaw where he hasn't shaved in a few days, down to catch his chin and pull him up, slow, Benny's dick slipping out of his mouth an inch at a time until it falls back against his belly. Benny lets out a sharp short breath, and Dean sucks one last kiss against the base of the shaft, head turned so he’s looking right at Sam, resisting Sam’s pulling just for a moment—and then Dean pushes up onto his knees, follows Sam's hand on his jaw and leans in and kisses him, one arm slinging around the back of his neck, pushing in close enough that his dick presses up against Sam's thigh. Sam licks in deep, finding the taste of Dean's mouth and Benny's skin and that bitter-dark salt taste that he always forgets, somehow, until they're back here again. He slides his fingers along Dean’s prickly jaw to his ear, to the hair at the back of his head where there’s just enough to grip, to pull. He does, and Dean’s mouth drops open so Sam can lick deeper, bite soft over his lip, smiling a little when Dean shivers full-body against him.

"Better?" Sam says, when he pulls back long enough to breathe.

Dean blinks at him, a little dazed, and Sam runs a thumb over his wet lower lip, denting the full red plush of it. "Oh," Dean says, lazy-eyed, lips moving against Sam's skin, "yeah," and then Benny says, "Well, hell, I ain't got a taste, yet," and Sam rolls his eyes, faking that put-upon look that makes Dean shove at his shoulder, and then he leans down with a hand braced against the mattress and kisses Benny, too, Dean's fingers dragging down his back.

It was weird, the first few times, but it's not anymore. Benny kisses lazy, kisses slow, and they're both more used to being controlling than not, but they make it work—Sam nips at Benny's lip and Benny's hand winds into Sam's hair, holds a fistful of it just barely on this side of tight so Sam's held right in place. Another hand slips over Sam's side, Dean moving somewhere Sam can’t see just now because he’s leaning in, eyes closed, focused on Benny’s cool clever mouth—and, oh, there’s that steady tug at his scalp again, like a line connected right to Sam’s balls. He grunts and slides his lips along Benny’s cheek, soft close-trimmed beard prickling against his skin, scrapes his blunt human teeth against Benny’s neck so that there’s a chuckle against his ear, another yank at his hair, harder this time, and he hitches in a breath, braces his free hand on Benny’s chest as his thighs clench, his dick heavy and really asking for some attention, now, please, but before he can do anything about it Benny pulls him back by the hand in his hair, meets his eyes with a heavy-eyed grin, says, “I think we’re leaving someone out,” and Sam huffs, presses a quick kiss against his mouth and rolls over, so that he’s laying right against Benny’s side.

Dean’s kneeling down toward the end of the bed, sat back with his ass against his heels, a hand wrapped around himself—and, god, he’s really hard, his dick dark red and slick with precome, his fingers wet as he slips down to cup his own balls. He must’ve been biting his lips, watching, because they’re almost as red as the flesh below. Hell, Sam understands—he’s watched the two of them together enough times. Dean flicks a heavy-lidded glance over them both, muscle in his arm and legs and hips clenching obviously as he pushes into his own touch, and Sam wants—“Come here,” he says, holding a hand out, and Dean moves immediately, rising up and kneeing himself closer and taking Sam’s hand to help balance as he crawls over Sam’s lap, his skin so shocking-warm after Benny’s cool touch, and Sam slips his hands onto Dean’s waist and lifts up off the pillows to meet him in a kiss, scraping his own teeth over that tender sore mouth, licking in where he’s hot and slick-soft. He could do this all day, he really could. Dean shuffles in closer and there’s his dick, wet and solid, glancing up against Sam’s so that he groans—they both do, and somewhere close Benny says, “That’s it,” soft, and Dean leans in, little hitched noise in the back of his throat, shoves an arm between Sam’s shoulders and the headboard so that they’re pressed together, chest and belly and groin, Dean’s balls plush against Sam’s, oh. Sam’s got his eyes closed and he strokes his hands up Dean’s pretty perfect back, strokes up his neck and into his hair and scrapes his fingernails against his scalp, through the velvet-short buzz in the vulnerable hollow of his skull, and Dean rolls his hips hard into Sam’s for that, muscles in his belly clenching, gets a hand on the side of Sam’s face and slides one calloused thumb over his cheekbone, gentle and slow. Ah—it’s sweet, sweet like Dean can be, sometimes. Sam breathes into his mouth, licks soft against the generous bow of his upper lip, and for a second there trapped all warm and breathing together they’re the only two people in the world—but then the mattress shifts, Benny’s weight dipping it at Sam’s side so he has to spread his legs a little, dig his heels in for the balance to keep Dean in exactly the right place.

Dean gasps into his mouth, then, his weight jerking into Sam’s. Sam pulls back, gets one hand on Dean’s jaw and pushes him up just a little so he can see as Dean’s eyes flinch closed—and then Dean drops his head, cheek dragging down against Sam’s palm so that Sam’s practically holding him up, a shudder going through him. Sam shifts his eyes to Benny, kneeling up at their side down by Sam’s knees, his hand reaching down past Dean where Sam can’t see—but he can guess. He keeps his one hand on Dean’s jaw, thumb braced against the top of his bobbing throat, slides the other down his chest, his clenching belly, shoves down past his leaky dick and his balls, creates a tiny space between them, to find—yeah, that’s what he thought.

“Sore?” Sam says, soft like it’s a private thing between them, even though he knows Benny can hear. His fingers are pressed up against Benny’s knuckles, sliding in the lube and the heat and the close hot skin. Dean gives a weak scoff, though his brow’s starting to draw a little tight and his eyes are still squeezed closed, and Sam lifts his chin, meets Benny’s eyes over Dean’s shoulder—but then Dean spreads his knees a little more, his pelvis tipping in to crush Sam’s wrist between their two bodies, his lower back dipping to move his ass up against Benny’s hand. It’s not like they haven’t left the bed—and it’s not like fucking Dean has been all they’ve done while they’ve been in it, either, but—Dean _likes_ it. It's proven now, how he pulses his hips back into Benny’s slow fingering, thighs twitching along Sam’s sides. He likes it deep, doesn’t mind if it hurts a little, which is a good thing because neither Benny nor Sam is anything like small. Sam keeps his hand down in that tight close heat, his fingers splayed out to give Benny’s room to move, and he can _feel_ it when Benny pushes in a second finger—their hands slipping together but also the slow shudder that moves through Dean, the low rumbly groan that he lets out when Benny starts to really work—and then he drops down, dislodges Sam’s hand on his jaw and lets his head hang low between his shoulders, stiff arms braced on the bed either side of Sam’s head. Sam presses a kiss up against his cheek, over his temple, and slides his now free hand down his back to his ass, squeezing one cheek tight and pulling him open, meeting Benny’s eyes past his shoulder.

“Come on,” Sam says, to Dean, to either of them, and Benny raises his eyebrows, twists his arm and shoves in hard, deep so that Dean jolts again, cries out low and startled against Sam’s ear. Christ, he’s the hottest thing Sam’s ever—he squeezes his ass tighter, hauls him in so his dick’s slipping hard against Sam’s aching one, and says, “C’mere, Dean, come on, tell me—tell me how it feels,” and Dean laughs out a shaky shuddering laugh because Benny’s wrist is moving smooth as a piston, now, fingers pumping in and out, smearing lube all over Sam’s skin and making Dean’s so hot, but Dean sucks in a deep hitching breath and says, cheek settling alongside Sam’s, sweat starting at his temples, he says, _“Ah_ ,” punched straight out of his gut, and then—

“God, Sammy,” breath coming fast and damp against Sam’s skin, one hand flying down to clutch at Sam’s shoulder, fingers digging in so deep it hurts— “God,” he says again, rumbling low, “it feels good, it feels—real good, his fingers—ah, they’re not as long as yours but they’re thick, more like mine, and—and he found my spot, he’s right there, just, just push—pushing, _fuck_ ,” he says, back arching obscenely, rising up on his knees with his thighs shaky and shivering, so that a whoosh of cooler air surges into the tight space between them, and Sam slides his hand up a little, cups Dean’s balls, his palm steady against the solid weight of his weeping dick to hold it up against his flinching belly, and Dean says, “Benny,” shuddery right up against the side of Sam’s neck, “Benny, if you don’t—“

Benny blows out a quick sharp breath and nods, not that Dean can see it—Sam spreads his legs a little more, making room, and Benny shifts over, hairy solid knees settling onto the mattress tucked up right against the inside of Sam’s thighs, pressing in close, and over the gleaming slope of Dean’s back Sam can see Benny’s dick, slipping up between Dean’s cheeks, a teasing glide, and Dean groans out, “God— _damn_ it,” lets go of the headboard completely and grabs at Benny’s thigh, pulling him closer, and Benny grins at Sam but then pushes in, slow and steady, his hands tight on Dean’s hips to keep him in place—good thing, too, because Sam can feel suppressed jerk all through his body, muscle flinching hard as he tries to shove back into it or forward and away, Sam can’t tell. There’s a long breathed out groan, Dean’s hand dragging along Sam’s shoulder to grab at his neck, fingers digging in hard, and Sam kisses what skin he can reach—his temple and the crinkled-tight skin by his eye, the top of his pink flushed ear—and when Benny bottoms out Dean lets out a _fuck_ , breathy and so quiet Sam would worry that he were really hurt. But, no, his dick’s leaking, smearing wet all over his inside of Sam’s wrist, and he’s straining, trying to push back against Benny, one knee slipping a little against the bed—and then Benny pulls back and shoves back in, a shallow steady thrust. Dean sucks in a breath, holds it, and then there’s another, and oh—god, the noise Dean makes—and then Benny’s moving, slow but steady, that easy fuck that Sam’s watched loosen Dean up so many times now, but it never gets any less—

“Feels good, Dean?” Benny says, rocking in, and Sam meets his eyes, his lazy smile, tracks down his bulky, lightly haired chest, his solid core, those hands holding Dean’s hips _just_ right. Dean nods, breathing out in short gasps into Sam’s neck, his shoulder. “Tell me, go on. Let me hear it.”

“Shut up,” Dean says, voice thin. Benny chuckles, his eyes falling closed and his hips rolling a little harder, but just as slow. Dean’s hand falls down from Benny’s leg and he rests his forearm across Sam’s chest, buries his head into the crook of his elbow. Benny’s hips twist a little and Dean shudders, muscles in his back shivering, and Sam finally drags his free hand down to his own dick, holds himself tight at the base so he won’t just come from this.

Like this, Dean is the hottest thing Sam’s ever seen—but it’s only now, with Benny, at this slight remove from the world, that he really gets to _see_ , undistracted by his own stupid body, its demands and selfishness. He slips his fingers back down, past Dean’s tight balls to the slick stretch of his perineum, just glancing against the taut filled rim, and Dean’s hand tightens so hard on Sam’s neck that it really does hurt, but—god. He doesn’t say a thing, doesn’t smack Sam or flinch his hips away—just groans, a higher whine in the back of his throat. Sam spreads his legs a little more, pushes up against the bracketing frame of Dean’s knees where they’re dug in to the mattress, and Dean wobbles, muscle shuddering against Sam’s. Benny’s grip tightens, visibly, and he shoves in just a little harder, and—Sam grips Dean’s dick again, starts jerking him nice and slow, matching the pace Benny’s setting and the rough gasping catch of his own breath, spreading slick all over, long grasping pulls so familiar from years and years of holding him just like this, making him come just like this, making him cry out like _that_ , setting Sam’s blood to beating so fast and dark it’s like having powers again. But—

“Ah, ah, Sammy—“ Dean gets out, head rolling against his arm—“Come on, Dean,” Sam says, a queer pleading note curving into his voice that’s almost never there, but he _wants_ , he’s aching and Dean’s so—“come on, come,” Sam says, and Dean shakes his head, drops a hand to the pillow behind Sam’s head and shoves up just enough so that Sam can see his face, while he says, “Not—not yet,” he says, eyes pleading and wet and his mouth bitten dark, a patchy flush all over his cheeks and throat—“I want you—you’re gonna fuck me next, I don’t want to—not until—” and Benny shoves forward then, _hard_ , and Dean lurches, Sam catching him before he hurts himself, his dick crushing down into Sam’s and his face tucked down into Sam’s shoulder again, curled forward over his own forearm, all that warm skin sprawled all over Sam, who grits his teeth against the pleasure of it but then Benny’s there, leaning over Dean’s shoulder, and he knocks Sam’s mouth open with his own and kisses him hard, demanding, blunt teeth clashing against Sam’s and his tongue shoved deep, matching the snapping speed of his hips, shoving hard and jolting moans out of Dean. Sam kisses Benny back, hard, gives as good as he gets, until finally Benny yanks away and buries his face down between Dean’s shoulderblades and hauls Dean’s hips in tight against his own and shakes, holds still and hard and quivering, finally groaning loud enough to match the noise Dean’s making. Sam drags a hand out from between his and Dean’s bodies and puts it on Benny’s shoulder, palms the side of his head, but it’s clumsy because oh _Christ_ he’s hard, his thighs already trembling from having to hold back—

Benny kisses Dean, right in the center of the back, and then pulls out, drags himself out slow. Sam shoves upward on one elbow, nearly dizzy, but he wants to see, and—oh god, yeah, that thick shaft still huge and dark, wet streaked along it, lube and—and he’s going to fuck through that, he’s going to. Benny lifts up a little, eyes just the thinnest ring of blue, stroking firmly over Dean’s sides, kneading into his back, into his ass, because Dean’s shuddering, his breath still coming as hard as if he were getting fucked. Sam can hardly stand to wait another second, but he pushes up onto both elbows, gives himself a little space just—to breathe, sweaty with his hair sticking to the sides of his face.

“Dean,” he says, watching Benny slip a thumb into the wet sore space, feeling Dean flinch with it. He says, “You want—?” Wondering if the answer will be no, not this time—but Dean nods, still so hard pressed up against Sam’s stomach, and he puts his hands on the bed and pushes himself up, drags his knees forward on the bed, and then Benny’s hand is there, cool and firm against Sam’s aching dick, helping, and another hand hooks under Dean’s armpit, pulls him up with easy strength so he’s kneeling upright and Sam can see—god, all of him, his flushed chest and the wet smeared all over his stomach from lube and their mixed precome, his face pink and his eyes heavy, his _mouth_ , and Sam can’t help staring but god, it’s worth all the insanity for this, for this moment with Dean’s eyes on his, _wanting_ him, wanting _him_ , and then Dean reaches behind and grabs Benny’s wrist to steady himself and then sinks down, the sudden hot shock of him making Sam hiss through his teeth, making Sam grab at his waist and just _feel_ it, slick and close but broken-open from Benny, soft and ready for Sam. Dean’s head falls back against Benny’s shoulder, his dick standing out straight from his body so slick and dark, that thick vein over the top practically pulsing, and Sam breaks his grip on Dean’s waist just long enough to touch the wet head, slipping around it with two fingers, while Dean settles down to the base of him, eyes squeezing closed. “Okay?” Sam manages, brain only half-online—but then Dean lifts up, a wet delicious drag that makes Sam’s knees draw up, his heels slipping against the mattress, and everything goes into a bit of a blur, then. He shoves his hips up, meets Dean as he falls, and the noises Dean’s making are so, so—he lifts up, gets his arm around Dean’s waist and tilts up his chin and kisses him sloppy and open-mouthed over his pretty collarbone, up his throat where he can feel the very heart of the moan rumbling from its start, says _Dean_ up against his jaw, balls aching, wanting—“Move,” Sam says, voice something he doesn’t recognize, “ _Move_ , damn it—“ and Benny’s out of the way in a second so that Sam can wrap his arms tight around Dean’s waist and gather his legs up under himself and shove forward, bowling Dean over onto his back on the mattress, and he slips out for few seconds but it doesn’t matter, because Dean’s thighs spread out wide around his hips and he’s looking up into Sam’s eyes and he nods, gulping and frantic, and Sam gets a hand under his hips and he tilts and then _oh_ the shove back in, slotting right back into his place and then leaning into it, knees braced and his arm shoved under Dean’s shoulders to raise him enough that Sam can kiss him, can lick into that so-familiar mouth, pushing in and in and in where he’s so _wet_. Sam leans further into him, Dean’s dick slipping against Sam’s belly, and Dean’s arms wrap around Sam’s neck, his thighs high and tight over Sam’s sides, and Sam’s not being careful, anymore, he doesn’t care if Dean’s sore, he’s snapping in hard and close and he’s snarling almost into Dean’s mouth, but Dean’s hands just wrap into his hair and clutch and _pull_ , oh, and then Dean’s mouth goes slack under his and his hips cringe up tight and his heels dig into Sam’s ass and then the clutch, the pull, _fuck_ and Dean cries out, spasming around Sam, wet slicking up between their bellies, and oh god Sam puts his head down against Dean’s shoulder and _nails_ him, riding through the clenching pulse of him, hard and desperate—and then Dean goes loose, his thighs falling open and wide, his hands no longer yanking Sam’s scalp, but he puts one hand over Sam’s neck, drags a soft touch over Sam’s spine, he says, _come on, Sammy, come on—_ and Sam feels himself clenching, his balls clutching up and the aching desperation of them winding to their tightest point and Dean puts his lips down against Sam’s ear and says in a shaky soft voice _come on, little brother, give it to me_ and Sam shoves forward so hard that they drag half a foot up the bed and—yeah, he comes, just like that, Dean’s voice at his ear, his breath shocked to stillness in his chest.

Long moment of emptiness. He grinds forward, slow. Unloading, deep, with Dean’s hands stroking over his back, down his sides. He sucks in a breath, kisses against the skin in front of him—“C’mere,” he hears, a scratched-up rumble, and he lifts his head obediently for a real kiss, Dean’s mouth tender and his muscles shaking, jerking with aftershocks. Sam finds himself humming, soft, lips pulling easy and slow against Dean’s, just soaking in the taste and feel of his brother.

A cool touch lands on his shoulder and he opens his eyes, pulls in a long slow breath. Yes. The touch strokes up to his face, pushes his sweaty hair back behind his ear, and when he turns his head Benny’s there, watching him. He gets a half-smile, a calloused thumb slipping under his jaw. Underneath him, Dean sighs. Sam shifts his hips, dragging out as slow and careful as he can, but even so Dean frowns, face twisting, flinching a little. Sam shifts over to Dean’s right side, gathers him in to his chest, and he watches with sleepy eyes while Benny smiles for real at them both, trails a hand down Dean’s back, and then Sam closes his eyes. Dean pushes in closer against him, slings his arm over Sam’s waist. They can sleep a little more. There’s time.

 

They finish the woodshed that afternoon, while Benny’s sleeping through the brightest part of the day. Sam does the crawling around on the little roof, and the carrying, Dean sitting on the porch and carving notches into the planks via some system that Sam doesn’t quite understand, but hell. It works, and he’ll do as he’s told. Benny emerges, shouldering on his suspenders, while Dean’s just finishing up the awning he decided to add last-minute with the leftover planks—Sam’s shoulders are starting to ache, holding it up while Dean dithers about where exactly to put the last few nails, but he’s feeling too mellow to complain.

“Well, look at that,” Benny says, relaxed, but he really sounds—pleased. The sun’s almost ready to slip over the other side of the forest and it’s a kind of golden quiet afternoon, the air cool.

Dean finishes nailing in the last board and nudges Sam to let go. “Good, right?” he says, smug, but his face is wide open, smiling as he looks back at Benny. Sam looks back, too, shrugging his stiff shoulders, and Benny comes down off the porch, walks over and puts his hand on the solid sidewall, looks it up and down.

“Good enough,” he says, with a shrug, and Dean rolls his eyes, but Sam just claps Benny on the shoulder, stands back and smiles at the stupid thing. It’s just a shed, no matter what Dean says, but—it’s nice, kind of. Something they built with their own hands, something that’ll last. It’s a good feeling.

Benny disappears for a while, after that. Sam returns to the Hemingway that’s been abandoned while they worked. Just a few pages left, and he wants to savor them, reading slow under the lamplight that’s filtering in through the window. Dean’s doing something in the kitchen—cooking something, maybe—with the door wide open between them.

Eventually, Benny comes back: fed, and carrying with him another rabbit and a surprising handful of small wild parsnips. Sam peels the parsnips at the table while Dean sautés the meat in the big stewpot and Benny leans back in his chair, watching them, telling them a story about sailing past Tierra del Fuego back in the days before the first world war. “Best piece of the world I ever saw,” he says. Sam looks out the window at the dying day, the last bleeding rays of the sun splintering through the auburn-leaved trees. _Had we but world enough, and time_ , he thinks, and then stands, and adds the chopped up parsnips to Dean’s steaming pot.

 

Past midnight, he wakes up. He blinks, the fire crackling at his back.

“Not my story to tell,” Dean says, low. Sam breathes steadily, quietly.

“Not askin’ you to tell it, chief,” Benny says in return, just as low.

There’s a soft huff, a clink of ceramic on wood. Dean’s drinking something. “Well, you’ve always been a real nosy son of a bitch,” he says.

Sam watches the glow of the fire flickering over the wall opposite the bed. He should—move, somehow. Prove that he’s awake. He listens, instead.

Eventually, Dean says, “Scares the hell out of me, man,” his voice rough and too-honest. Sam closes his eyes, a clutching wave of grief closing his throat. He knows what they’re talking about, now. “Back then. Worst thing I ever thought I could—and now, that he might go _back_ —“

Another clink, mug hitting table. Behind Sam’s closed eyes slips an image of their dad, young and false and smiling, a set of pale familiar fingers worming through the cracked walls of a cage.

“Always seems to be down to you two to save the world,” Benny says, mild.

Dean snorts. There’s a low dragging sound, a glug of liquid. “You break it, you buy it,” he says, tone wry. Sam smiles, into the pillow. Yeah. That's about right. It was worth the cost, though. It always has been.

 

The sun hasn’t quite crested the mountain. They’re standing there on the porch, packs lighter. Last night Dean gave Benny their real present—two dozen paperbacks, from a library sale back in Indiana. (He snuck in a fat _Twilight_ omnibus, over Sam’s protests—he said Benny’s reaction would be well worth any beating they got.)

“Sure I can’t make you a coffee or something before you go?” Benny says, leaned up against the doorjamb. “You soft livin’ types like that kind of thing.”

“Liquid breakfast,” Dean says, holding up his flask. Sam rolls his eyes. Dean nods over at the woodshed, pale and gleaming in the chilly morning. “Get some sealant on that, okay? You want it to last more than a few years, you’ll want to protect it from rot. Don’t want to waste all my hard work, right?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, chief,” Benny says, smiling, and Dean nods, then steps in and hugs him, hard, pressing his face down into Benny’s shoulder. Sam bites into his lip. Dean lets go, after a few seconds, and claps Benny hard on the shoulder. Benny tips an imaginary cap to Sam, smile a little smaller. "See you 'round."

It’s a faster hike, down the hills. The forest stirs more with the morning, birds calling over the sound of the creek, even this late in the year. They come out onto the road with the day still cool to find the Impala dew-wet, red-brown leaves dappled over her hood and flanks. Winter’s coming, for real. Sam looks out over the hills, the misty vista, red trees slipping into a mystery in the distance.

“Time to head home, Sammy?” Dean says. The keys are dangling from his hand, his eyes steady on Sam.

Sam takes in a deep breath. “Yeah,” he says, and Dean nods, tosses his bags into the trunk. Yeah, Sam thinks. He’s ready. He settles into the passenger seat and the Impala roars to life. Dean smiles, looking out the windshield at nothing Sam can see, and then—the leap forward, down the waiting, empty highway.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/157316120394/to-make-the-sun-stand-still)


End file.
